


Home

by Narnvaeron



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Everyone Is Alive, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Love Confessions, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Reader-Insert, Romance, Thorin is a Softie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:33:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26716081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narnvaeron/pseuds/Narnvaeron
Summary: Persuaded by his closest ones, Thorin agrees to hire an artist to paint a portrait of him and soon finds out that it might be the best kind of coincindence that has ever happened to him—and for you, too.
Relationships: Thorin Oakenshield/Reader, Thorin Oakenshield/You
Kudos: 21





	Home

The King under the Mountain was standing still, eyes focused on something behind your back, his posture straight and proud, and for a single moment you started to believe that it was a majestic statue you were looking at, not the very alive and equally intimidating Thorin Oakenshield himself. Slowly, your sight moved to the canvas, carefully, as if you were afraid that this movement could cause too much noise in the deadly silent room. Soft strokes of the brush left a trail of beige paint on the creamy fabric, following by the next one and another, until you needed to dip the brush in the pigment again. Holding your breath, you proceeded with your work, the trembling of your fingers now not as visible as an hour ago when you had just saw him for the first time.

To say that you were surprised while receiving a message considering your new job would be a misunderstanding. You were beyond shocked, a bizzare combination of anxiety and excitement building up in your stomach when your gaze ghosted over the inked letters, as if you were expecting them to lose the first meaning if you stared long enough. Nevertheless, they remained the same, unmoving and very, very clear about the sender’s intentions.

You were invided to the Lonely Mountain, the kingdom of Erebor you have heard a lot about as a child in various stories and legends, and spent many sleepless nights wondering how did it look like in a more merciful times. Right now, however, the mere possibility of wandering through its halls seemed too unreal, like a dream you could not wake up from no matter how many times you blinked or put the letter down only to pick it up after barely few minutes. The letters were still there though, black ink sinked in the yellowed paper, so heavy in your hands.

Placing the wooden palette on the side, you walked to Thorin, your palms suddenly becoming treacherously sweaty, betraying your nervousness in the latest person you wanted to show any weakness to. Delicately, as if his frame was made of a fragile glass (oh, sweet irony, for you have never witnessed anyone as strong and powerful as him), you grabbed the edge of his fur coat and moved it slightly up over his shoulder, since it must have accidentally slipped down a little bit, now not suiting the sketch on your canvas and changing the way the shadows fell upon his armoured torso. You could feel the intensity of his gaze on you, although he remained silent, allowing you to touch and change the way he was standing to your liking—so the painting you were working on would be as breathtaking as Balin promised him to be.

„A painting?” Thorin asked back then and took a sip of an ale from his wooden beer mug. „I do not need a painting.”

„Of course you do not,” Balin nodded understandingly. „The palace is already full of the monuments of your ancestors and soon yours also. What I think is that, it would be an interesting difference.”

„Paintings are fragile, they won’t endure the pass of time.”

„Prehaps they will, if you only give it a chance.”

„Plus…” Kíli, who was obviously eavesdropping the whole conversation, sat next to his uncle with an alarmingly wide smile on his face. „Currently there is a great opportunity to try this out!”

Thorin eyed him cautiously, never truly considering anything Kíli called ‘great’ as such. 'Dangerous’ maybe, 'reckless’ even, but never 'great’.

„Indeed, it is,” Fíli took a seat on his other side, so Thorin had nowhere to escape this pointless discussion.

Groaning deeply, he took another sip of an ale.

„Listen, uncle,” Kíli continued, despite his partner in coversation being less than interested in what did he have to say. „Yesterday we have met a wonderful painter in Dale. Amazingly skilled. At least few years of experience. But what is the most important, is that she is a globetrotter. A lone ranger.”

„Which only means that she must not be as clever as you take her for, Kíli, to travel those lands all alone.” Thorin’s remark was almost enough to wipe the smile off this nephew’s face.

„Prehaps. Prehaps she is also a fool to paint for barely few silver coins or a warm meal and a place to stay for the night but isn’t it what makes it all special? The dream, whatever it is, she is following? Despite what anyone says? Ignoring the danger? Eating the fear for breakfast?” With every word passing, Kíli was getting closer to Thorin, his voice lowering almost to the conspirational whisper before he laughed and straightened his back. „Come on, it does sound familiar.”

„Why does it mean so much for you?” Thorin peeked at him and then to the other side, at his brother who was only listening for now, surely ready to intervene. „Why the bloody painting?”

„Because you have been working so much lately, you need some kind of entertainment.” Apparently, it was Fíli’s turn to speak. „A relieve from all the stress and burden. Something different to think of, a breath of fresh air.”

„And how is standing in a single place for hours going to help?”

Fíli only shrugged. „It could be fun. If you won’t like it then you can destroy the painting and we promise to never ask you that again. Ever. Am I right, Kíli?”

„Absolutely!”

Later on, Thorin could not point out what exactly made him agree for his nephews’ wicked offer. Maybe it was an ale, maybe he was feeling particulary tired that evening and simply wanted them to leave him be or maybe he knew that he truly needed some rest for his mind. It has been a long time since his Company reclaimed the Lonely Mountain and ever since he rarely thought about anything else than his duties—the neverending pile of problems which seemed to grow as he reached deeper, like a wild weeds devouring the garden he was desperately trying to tame. And yet, no matter how hard he tried, under every stone there was more; more things to take care of, more decisions to make, more sleepless nights. Only the time seemed to shrink.

When he stood in the room, the sunlight spilling on the floor by his feet, Thorin thought that maybe it was not such a bad idea, after all. Your gaze was soft but attentive, remembering the details of his royal outfit and recreating them on the canvas. It was a talent he never considered particulary useful but it could have some advantages, indeed.

Like the fact that he could look at your lovely face for how long he wanted, never getting caught as you were too focused on the paths left by your brush.

„Where do you come from?” he asked the first day, right after you explained your vision to him, not without a stutter or two.

You looked at him puzzled, at first not really convinced that he actually asked it out loud, for his posture did not move a bit.

„Nowhere,” you told him and cleared the throat before continuing. „And everywhere. I like to consider this whole world as my home. That way you never feel like an unwelcomed guest, no matter where you go.”

„The place you were born,” he added, his voice low and demanding, used to giving orders and having them accomplished in a blink of an eye. „Do you ever miss it?”

You were afraid of the subject, aware that speaking further seemed more like wandering on a thin ice. The King almost sacrificed everything just so he could have a place to call home, and then, there was a human telling stories about how did it never matter. And so, you decided to tell him the truth.

„I was never happy in a place I was born. It made me feel trapped.”

He did not elaborate on the subject and you knew better than to continue. You have almost finished colouring his face that day, the handsome, royal features staying under your eyelids long after you have fallen asleep.

The next morning, you were invited for breakfast with Thorin’s nephews, the ones you had a dubious pleasure of meeting during your stay in Dale. Although you were not convinced that it was a good idea to ask you to paint the king—the King under the Mountain, that is!—eventually you were quite grateful for their idea. You could not remember when was the last time you had such a delicious food in your mouth and a soft mattress under your spine to rest. Furthermore, you were promised to not only get a shelter while you were working, but also a payment you deserved, which only made you more nervous about what will Thorin think about the result. For the first four hours you have spent with him alone in your temporary study room, you could already tell that there were not many things which could make him at least content.

You wondered, how did he look like when he smiled, how did the tone of his voice change when he laughed.

„Could you…” you started, still desperately wanting to sound as polite as possible, which was quite hard, considering the situation you were in—telling the King where should he stand and look. „Could you, please, move a little bit to the right, My King…?”

You could swear there was a spark of amusement in his eyes before he took a step as you asked.

„'My King’ is not necessary,” he informed you and in the very second he finished the sentence you wished for the ground to open and swallow you up.

„Oh.” You blinked few times. „My apologies, I have never… I was talking to your nephews and they told me it will be the best way to politely adress you.”

„Of course they did…” he sighed. „I am not your king and as far as I am concerned, nobody is.”

You barely managed to finish the outline or his armour that evening, way too lost in thoughts to focus on the job and Thorin did not seem to mind, not then, nor the day after when you met him in your study room, puctual as always.

You told him the stories from the lands you have travelled through before reaching Dale, some of them more or less interesting, but he was listening to you nevertheless, the sound of your voice echoing in the room bringing peace to his mind. Living for so many years, Thoring managed to visit most places you were still under the huge impression of, the images of different landscapes sharp and vivid in his memory as if it was yesterday. Looking at you, so eager to go further north, to experience and live, was truly a breath of fresh air in the dark halls of Erebor. The light burning in the shadows.

Thorin have never cared for the painting in the first place, after weeks of your presence in the kingdom, however, he found himself caring about it even less—despising the canvas, although you asked him to not look at it until it will be finished. Once you will be done with your work, he will have to pay you few golden coins, as promised, and let you go, only to be left alone once again, without your stories, without your voice, without your smile, without your mere presence shining brighter than the sun high on the sky. He admired you; the way your fingers moved the brush, the way your brows furrowed when you were particulary focused on a single detail of the painting, the way you laughed in the dining halls during breakfast, amused by something silly either Fíli or Kíli said, the way you walked down the corridors heading to your bedroom. Your presence was now so natural there, as if you were meant to be in the Lonely Mountain, like a long lost piece to finally make his kingdom whole.

He knew that the day when you will go on, will be the day when his heart will break in two also.

In no time, Thorin began to somehow admire the characteristic smell of terpentine filling the study room every evening, when you were cleaning your brushes and palette knives from the paint. It reminded him of you and your skills, and everytime he joined you there for a small chat, he observed the way your fingers gracefully moved with the tools. Your hands were not as rough as his, probably never wielding a sword nor holding a shield, but no less admirable. He would have laugh in the face of those, who would dare to tell him, barely few months ago, that one day he might grow fond of the delicate skin, the one he often mocked, considering it as a proof of a lesser work.

„I was wondering,” you started, placing a thin brush on the table covered with fabric next to you. „Could you tell me the story of your Company?”

Thorin looked up at you from his seat, the leather armchair in the corner of the room he tended to use whenever feeling particulary tired by the presence of the others. Never yours, though, for your presence was as natural as breathing.

„I believe everyone knows this story already, you and your kin included. There were legends, even.”

„Legends usually tell only half of the truth. The other half is made up by those who speak and I wish to hear it from the most reliable source. That would be an unforgettable experience.”

„I am curious how listening to an old Dwarf can be considered as a gained experience for ones like you.”

„And now I am curious how can you think it is not,” you admitted. „You are the King under the Mountain, you have seen and lived through more than I will ever do. It is a miracle that I can at least imagine your journey, but I do not want to hear about it from the mouths of people from Dale, nor Elves from Mirkwood. I wish to hear it from you, this is all I ask for.”

Thorin thought for a while, the innocent fascination in your eyes reminding him of the times he was nowhere near being the king you could admire. Lost, bruised and beaten but never broken—standing proudly like his own reflection on your canvas.

„Sit down,” he eventually told you. „I have to warn you that this is a very long story.”

„I do hope so.”

***

It surprised you, when you realized that you have been starting to slow down with your work—unlike all the past times. You liked the finish, putting some white paint there and there, giving the picture a new perspective, exposing the light and deepening the darkness, but when you looked at Thorin’s eyes, now staring right at you from the canvas, you found yourself rather downhearted than satisfied. Your time in Erebor was growing short, it was just a matter of days until you will have to part with the Dwarves and move on, find another model to portray and a new place to stay.

But how could you do that, if you felt like you had all your inspiration there, in this very place? As irrationally it sounded, you believed that the King under the Mountain was the muse you were looking for for all those years. He was the one you could look at and paint for the rest of your days and never get bored, the one which caused you to smile everytime you opened your eyes in the morning, ready to face the day. He made your heart beat so fast, now not due to the anxiety, but the possibility of seeing him and feeling his eyes upon you.

The realization struck you like a lightning when you were painting strands of his silver hair on the dark locks falling on his broad shoulders.

You loved him.

You loved your muse, your inspiration, your king.

You had to bite your lip to prevent the involuntary smile to appear on your face. Prehaps you were not as wrong as you previously thought about using this term toward him, for Thorin truly and unconditionally ruled your heart, willingly or not.

Not that you minded.

The last day of your work together, you spent wondering whether to put your signature on the painting or not. Once it will be there, there won’t be turning back, the painting will be done and so your time in this place, too. King Thorin was standing still, just like on the very first day, now seemingly the whole years ago. But it was barely summer, the warmer days were coming and you were aware that you have already overstayed your welcome in those halls. It did not change the fact that putting down your brush was the hardest thing you had to do.

„I am done,” you announced, the forced smile on your lips as you stood straight next to the easel.

„Already?” Was his reaction.

Nevertheless, Thorin let his arms fall loose by the sides and faced you, the harsh expression on his face now slowly melting, since you were no longer going to look at him that way nor another.

You nodded in response.

Now it was the time to say something. If he wanted to tell you what he felt, it was the best and last chance to do so, but he remained motionless, simply trying to remember the image of you standing there in a humble study room, the sunlight on your face, paint stains on your apron, hands held together in an awaiting manner. You were expecting him to say something, probably to ask to finally see your masterpiece… but he did not care for the damn painting.

He never cared for this bloody painting.

Instead, he muttered a simple order, while veguely gesturing to the armour and fur he was wearing:

„Help me to take this off.”

It was exactly as hard as you imagined, the steel pieces heavy and unpractical to carry as you placed them on the floor one by one, next to the axe and the sword, the weapons of his choice to eternalize. First, the noble furcoat, sliding down his arms with your trembling fingers as you could feel the scent of his hair, the subtle braids ended with beads jingling on the armour beneath the warm cover. The pauldrons, next the arm guards, then the breastplate and the gauntlets. Cold steel caging the burning heart. The King under the Mountain observed your ministrations and sporadically gave instructions if you were lost on how to continue, preparing for what was much more complicated—for baring his soul.

Contrary to what you hoped for, he was still as intimidating, even in the loose tunic, no weapon in hand and a sight which reminded you of a devoted sky above. The wise silver strands in his hair proved his knowledge and labour, something you were now familiar with after hearing the whole story of his Company. There were ages written down in a small wrinkles by his eyes, the history of loss, loyalty, courage and glory, and you found yourself mesmerized by it—by his gentle gaze hiding the pure ocean of secrets.

You were standing there, right in front of him and never in your whole life have you wanted to kiss him more. You did not move, when his hands stroked your arms, carefully moving up until they reached your neck and further, barely ghosting over your jaw.

„I have never been good with words of affection,” he whispered, caressing your cheek with the back of his hand. „But I know for sure that I would never forgive myself letting you go without an explanation. This world is harsh and brute, drowning in chaos and devoured by wars, eating alive the latest rays of light, but you have my word that I would willingly go through all of it once again, if it only meant meeting you at the end. I have no control over the past and although I regret that our paths did not cross earlier, now all I can do is to ask for your future, since it is and always will be shining brightly in front of us, darkness left behind. I love you, my dearest, and I care about you more than I can comprehend, with the most sincere kind of love a heart of an old king can muster.”

You were speechless, partly by the declaration itself, partly because of the ardour in his eyes and tone of his voice. His touch on your skin was featherlike, making you wonder how someone who carried such a great strength and authority could treat you with an utter gentleness. You smiled at him, taking his hand in yours and holding it for a while, feeling how warm they were against you—and Thorin patiently waited for your answer.

„I do not know what to say,” you started. „All I am certain of is that I was already starting to think that you will never ask me so, My King.”

Wide, genuinely happy smile which appeared on his features was way more breathtaking and heartwarming than any wild landscape you have ever seen, any adventure you have ever been on and any fleeting dream you were so desperately trying to achieve. When he kissed you, sweetly and passionately, you thought that maybe your aim was never to find a place to call home but to find home in the person who loved you the most.


End file.
